


The One Who Helps You from Your Knees

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues discussed, Cursed Derek Hale, Dead Kate Argent, Derek Is 15, Derek didn't age, Kate Argent is her own warning, M/M, Stiles is 18, True Love/Mates, Werewolves are not well known, Witch Argents, Witches are well known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Derek Hale was cursed at age fifteen until such a time that his true love could break open the glass encasement and kiss him. seventeen years pass until Stiles Stilinski, recent high school graduate, figures it out.--Sleeping Beauty sort of.





	The One Who Helps You from Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Consent issues. Kate Argent is her own warning.  
> If I've forgotten to tag something, let me know.  
> Inspired in part by [this](http://danielsharman.co.vu/post/90089290452/sterek-au-the-one-where-derek-is-sort-of-sleeping).  
> The titles comes from Heart on Fire by Scars On 45.  
> This work is not beta read. All mistakes are my own. I will read through and fix as soon as I can. Thank you.  
> Edit 4/16/18: Finally had a chance to go through and fix some mistakes.

~ * ~

Graduation from High School means walking across a stage, accepting a handshake and a (blank) piece of paper from the principal and a sword from the coach.

Finstock grins maniacally by the time Stiles gets to him.

“Here’s yours, Bilinski,” he chortles, all but smacking Stiles with the flat of the blade. “Be sure to try your hand at the trials!”

Ah, the trials. The thing that comes after graduation but before he can be reunited with his family. The trials which consist of taking the sword and trying to lop the lock off a crystal cabinet—well, more like a coffin.

See, long ago, about seventeen years to be exact, a local idiot got cursed.

That local idiot just so happened to be Derek Hale, founder of Beacon Hills Talia Hale’s second youngest child.

The curse was a lot _Sleeping Beauty_ and a little _Beauty and the Beast_ with all parts played by Derek.

When he was a whelp of a fifteen year old, Derek insulted the witchiest family to ever witch inside the city limits of Beacon Hills.

In return for his rudeness (which wasn’t really more than questioning why he couldn’t buy a bouquet of flowers for his mother from their flower stand), he was promptly smacked to sleep and left encased in a glass coffin (with air holes and a locked front door). Once a month for the week of the full moon, he would turn into a hideous beast with fangs and sideburns and missing eyebrows. Behind his ever-closed lids, his eyes glowed yellow.

The witch family then moved away after leaving a cryptic message for the future champions: “She (or He) who frees the Prince of Beacon Hills shall have everlasting love. Also, that coffin is indestructible so don’t even try anything like dynamite!”

Well. Good thing the coffin has been moved from the defunct flower stand to the graduation stage. Ahead of him, Stiles watches as Helena Stern swings her sword against the lock, only for it to bounce off and almost take off her arm.

She runs off in tears.

Stiles gulps. No one in their nearly four hundred strong class has yet to make even the slightest dent on the metal. Maybe swords aren’t the way to do it?

It’s just tradition now: the principal wishes the class good fortune and Finstock gives them a weapon.

In all of the history of Derek’s curse, only three people have abstained from facing the trials: Laura Hale, Derek’s sister, who graduated the year Derek was cursed; Peter Hale, his uncle, the year after; and Cora Hale, Derek’s twin sister, the year after Peter.

Inside the glass coffin, Derek waits patiently, asleep.

Well, if swords haven’t done it yet, Stiles is certain his won’t make a difference. So, he grins at Finstock and sets the sword down. He walks past the coffin, marveling yet again at the fact that Derek doesn’t seem to age inside the prison.

He passes the still sobbing Helena and heads back to his seat. A couple of rows ahead of him, Scott leans over to smack his shoulder.

“Dude, so not cool!” he says. “Coach is totally going to get you for that.”

“Scott,” Stiles says, calmly, “we’ve graduated. There is nothing Coach can do to us now or again.”

“Stiles!”

Okay, that’s his father’s voice. Stiles turns to find his father storming up to him, glare etched firmly on his face.

“What’s up, daddy-o?” Stiles forces himself to smile.

“Why didn’t you take the trials?”

“Why should I? It’s not like I’m going to make a difference. Derek Hale is in that thing for good.”

“How do you know you’re not the one?” his father demands. “You didn’t even try!”

“Oh, so now you want me to conform to society’s rules,” Stiles says, not without bitterness. There’s only so many times he can be placated for not taking Knight Training only to have his father berate him for refusing to do Knightly Duties.

He turns away from his father and watches classmate after classmate, all of whom have taken Knight Training, fail at breaking the lock.

“Fine,” he says, bitterly, stomping back to the stage and grabbing his discarded sword. He marches up to the coffin and whacks the flat of the blade against the lock, unsurprised when it doesn’t break. However, curiously, a small crack forms when the blade ricochets off the glass. Stiles examines it carefully, watching as it vanishes right before his eyes. Hmm. It appears the coffin is self-healing.

Taking heart, and hoping like hell he’s got enough strength in him, Stiles starts smacking the coffin itself. Indestructible, hah! he laughs to himself, chips of glass raining down around him. Once he’s gotten a nice sized hole going on, he takes a quick breather, watching in dismay as the hole starts mending.

He redoubles his efforts, panting and gasping with the exertion. Finally, after what must be hours, he has the hole large enough to free Derek’s sleeping face. A trickle of blood runs from where a piece of glass has struck the poor, still boy in the temple. Thankfully, it’s small.

Before the glass heals again, Stiles leans in and gently presses his lips to Derek’s. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t for Derek’s eyes to fly open, his mouth to drop, and the entire coffin, including the glass still in Derek’s head, to melt away, evaporating into thin air.

Magic smells like ashes, Stiles thinks.

“Hi,” he breathes, reaching a hand to touch Derek’s arm.

Derek flinches, tumbling forward into Stiles.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe,” Stiles says. He’s aware of the silence of the crowd around them. People staring at the freed boy.

“Who are you?” Derek demands, voice creaky and croaking. Well, he still looks and sounds like a fifteen year old, even if he’s supposed to be in his thirties. “Where is my family?”

“Uh,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his head. The Hales left town after a decade of failed attempts to rescue their son. No one knows where they went (it is rumored that they went after the witchy family for revenge, but Stiles thinks they would have taken Derek with them too if that were the case).

“I’m alone?”

“Well,” Stiles hedges. He glances around at the gathered crowd, at Scott grinning at him and flashing him two thumbs up, at his dad staring with what almost looks like pride, at Helena, paused in her crying to glare at him. “You’re not entirely alone.”

The look Derek gives him is flat and unimpressed.

“Yeah, okay, you’re alone now. We don’t know where your family went, but I’m sure, as soon as we announce that you’re free, they’ll come back.”

“Why would they leave without me?” Derek asks. “Couldn’t they have taken me with them?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I was one when you were put in here.”

“And how old are you now?”

“eighteen.”

“And how old am I now?” Derek asks. He looks dejected. Stiles shrugs.

“You’re supposed to be thirty-two.”

“But?”

“But, you still look like you’re fifteen.”

Derek glances down at his dated band t-shirt, his high tops, and his mismatched socks. “I still feel fifteen.”

“Congratulations, Bilinski.” Finstock slaps a hand onto Stiles’ shoulder. “You’ve broken the curse and rescued the prince. Now kiss him again and see if it solves that other, nasty little problem.” A flash of hurt crosses Derek’s face at Finstock’s words. “Well, go on. Lock lips.”

“He’s fifteen,” Stiles murmurs, reaching out to grab Derek’s hand before he can vanish into the crowds. Who knows what the recently awakened boy will do.

Finstock mutters, “Didn’t stop you before.”

“My dad’s the sheriff,” Stiles offers to Derek. “We can definitely see about getting an announcement out so that we can locate your family.”

“I still don’t understand why they left me behind,” Derek says, sounding forlorn. Stiles throws an arm over his shoulders and squeezes. Surprisingly, the boy clings to him, pressing his face into his chest.

“True love’s kiss,” Scott chirps, clapping Stiles on the back. Helena glares harder. Stiles sighs. What even is his life?

“Look, I appreciate that I was the only one smart enough to figure out how to get Derek out of his coffin, but I really think we should get him away from here before the crowd starts mobbing him.”

~ * ~

Word travels fast and by the time Stiles is pulling into his driveway, Scott in the passenger seat beside him, Derek in the back, there’s a group of reporters camped out in the street in front of his house.

Stiles knows his dad would never let them onto the property, but it is frightening that they were able to locate his house so quickly.

Derek stares at the crowd, blinking rapidly as cameras flash almost constantly. The boy—man? Boy—shudders and his eyes look distinctly yellow.

“I want my mom,” Derek whispers. “Why aren’t they here? Why can’t I go home?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “Look, we need to go inside. They are probably going to ask things. You don’t have answer at all.”

“Say ‘no comment’ if you have to say anything,” Scott advises.

Derek nods with resolution. He’s steeling himself, Stiles notes. The boy is brave. Far braver than Stiles would be in his place.

“Let’s go,” Stiles says, throwing open his door. Immediately, they are surrounded, questions and statements thrown at them in a hodgepodge mix making it hard to understand anything the reporters say. Derek glances around, wide-eyed and frightened. It’s obvious that he is overwhelmed.

Stiles puts a hand on Derek’s back to guide him. Scott leads the way, unlocking the door with his spare key and ushering them inside.

He slams the door and locks it again, peeking through the curtains at the milling crowd.

Stiles takes Derek to the kitchen and makes him sit down while he fills three glasses with water from the tap.

“You must be thirsty,” he says, offering a glass to Derek.

“Thank you,” Derek whispers, flinching at a particularly loud shout. Even though the house muffles most of the sound, even Stiles can still hear the noise of the reporters.

Derek drains his glass in one long swallow and looks morose until Stiles hands him another, refilling both his and Derek’s cups.

“So, uh, I’m going to call my dad and have him dig up everything he can on your family. You’re welcome to stay here or you can come with me.”

Derek finished his second and third glasses of water. “Actually, I think I need the bathroom.”

“Ah, yeah. Of course. There’s one just past the staircase—first door on the left. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Derek puts all the glasses in the sink and then sort of shuffles toward the bathroom. Stiles takes the opportunity to study him closer. He’s thin, maybe a tad underweight for his height, and his hair is short with spiky bangs swept up off his forehead. His clothes, a black t-shirt emblazoned with four creepy faces and white text, worn over a long-sleeved white undershirt and baggy black jeans don’t appear as out of fashion as Stiles might have expected from someone who has essentially been in a coma for seventeen years. It’s just his shoes that give him away. Though, Stiles has to admit, even with the layers and all, those jeans aren’t as baggy in the seat as they are around his legs.

“Quit staring at my ass,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles snaps his head up, fighting back a blush.

“I-I wasn’t,” he stammers. “I mean, y-you have nothing there—” Lies. The boy has a rounded behind like he devotes hours to squats. It’s the only explanation for why Stiles can see the definition of his butt through the denim. “I wouldn’t. Shut up and go pee.”

Great, now Stiles is thinking of Derek’s dick too and that is just wrong. He’s fifteen for God’s sake!

Derek smirks, wriggles his butt, and saunters into the bathroom, if still shuffling a bit. Must have to pee a lot then.

Stiles shakes his head, turning away. He catches Scott watching him from the living room couch.

“You kind of were checking him out,” Scott says.

“Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says when Scott starts laughing at him. “Whatever. I’m going to talk to my dad. Make sure none of those nut jobs trespass.”

He stomps up the stairs.

In his room, he pulls out his phone and dials his dad’s number. His father answers on the second ring.

“Hey, hi,” Stiles says. “Have you started looking into the Hales’ vanishing?”

“Of course.”

“Any news?”

Dad sighs. “Not really. They left a forwarding address but we haven’t been able to confirm that that’s where they are. How’s the kid doing?”

“He’s doing. He’d be better if we could find his family and get rid of the reporters.”

“What reporters?”

“The ones surrounding the house.”

Dad is silent for nearly ten seconds, an eternity on the phone. “I’m sending a few deputies over to disperse them. Are you all okay? No one’s hurt?”

“They hurt my ears. Does that count?”

Stiles jerks around at the sudden appearance of Derek in front of him, one arm flailing out and knocking over his bedside lamp. Stiles clutches at his chest to indicate how close to a heart attack he just came. Derek shrugs and throws himself onto Stiles’ bed. He doesn’t have his shoes anymore, and Stiles thinks that might be the reason he didn’t hear him come upstairs.

“Derek says their volume is less than favorable,” he relays to his dad.

“Noise pollution, got it. Anything else?”

“Excessive camera flashes,” Derek adds, voice muffled because he’s burrowed his head under Stiles’ pillow.

Stiles shakes his head at him although the boy can’t see him. Instead, he goes to the stairs and shouts down to Scott, “Any trespassers?”

A few beats later, Scott responds with, “Yeah, that creepy bastard from a few grades above us who was always obsessed with the trials, Matt Daehler or some shit.”

“We got a jumper. You already should have a file on him. Matthew Daehler.”

Stiles recalls the first and last time he’d ever had to encounter the weasel that is Matt Daehler. Freshman year, he’d walked into the principal’s office to receive his exemption from Knight Training—with his ADHD it was better for all involved if he wasn’t given any sharp objects and then loosed on his unsuspecting classmates—and smacked, literally, into Matt Daehler. Daehler was so incensed and worked up that he hadn’t even noticed Stiles, and the tirade to which the principal, and Stiles, were subjugated was more than a little frightening. Daehler was in the middle of proposing to stick the “Boy in the Glass Coffin” in a room at City Hall and let visitors from all over the country (and world, probably) come to try their hand at releasing the boy.

Stiles had taken an instant dislike to Daehler, one that had not dissipated in the three years since he’d last seen the creepy bastard.

Daehler’s criminal record refers to the time he was caught setting up cameras in the girls’ locker room the year after he’d graduated.

Stiles is glad he was the one to figure out how to free Derek; it means they have to see if there’s any truth to the “true love” bullshit that cursed Derek in the first place or Derek will have to go elsewhere. Stiles will support him no matter what ends up happening.

“Got it,” Dad says in his ear, “and Stiles…be careful. We’ll talk when I get home.”

“Sure,” Stiles says easily. Even though he thinks there isn’t much either of them can talk about. Except maybe where Derek is expected to stay while they locate his family.

Stiles tosses his phone onto his desk and drags his wheeled chair closer to his bed. Derek peeks out from under the pillow.

“Is it weird,” he wonders, “that I’ve been asleep for seventeen years but all I want to do is sleep more?”

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe you never made it to R.E.M.?”

“Maybe.” Derek sounds doubtful. For some reason, Stiles always expected him to sound cocky and confident, sure of himself—stories of Derek Hale strutting all over the school were legendary, as was the understanding that none of them were his true love. Then again, seventeen years is a long time. Maybe people, some of them parents’ of underclassmen, were just misremembering Derek. Stiles thinks this Derek sounds scared, small, unsure of himself.

“Can I sleep?” Derek asks, pulling Stiles from his thoughts. “I promise to only sleep.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. That sounds like a joke, like maybe Derek is comfortable around him. Well, with the ass wriggling, he should have expected it. “You wanna sleep in my bed?” he asks.

Derek ducks back under the pillow, but not fast enough to hide the sudden flush of his face. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “It smells…nice. Like safety and you. It’s good.” Derek makes a big show of inhaling deeply before emerging from under the pillow, face still pink.

Stiles swallows hard, unsure if he’s feeling embarrassed or aroused at the display. The two are not mutually exclusive for him.

“Well, I’ll just leave you to it,” he stammers, barely remembering to grab his phone before fast-footing it down the stairs. Thankfully, Scott doesn’t say anything and they sit on the couch in near silence.

~ * ~

Stiles wakes up with a crick in his neck and a heavy weight on his lower half.

He knuckles the sleep out of his eyes, picking at a particularly stubborn piece of eye-gunk when the soft laughter of his dad catches his attention.

“What’s so funny?” Stiles glances down to where Scott is lying on him—except that’s not Scott.

That’s Derek, curled over Stiles’ legs, his face dangerously close to little Stiles.

Dad laughs again while Stiles jerks upright, dislodging Derek, who whines in his sleep.

“Apparently you’ve been quite comfortable to sleep on,” Dad says from the kitchen doorway where he’s drinking a mug of something that better be non-doctored coffee and smirking at them.

Stiles stands up, dusting off his pants like that helps him forget how warm—how right—Derek felt lying on him. “How long have you been home?” he asks instead.

“Only a few minutes. Thought you’d like to hear what I found out.”

“Of course.” Stiles risks a glance at Derek to see that he has one eye open. “Come on then,” Stiles says to him. “This concerns you too.”

Derek pops up and follows him to the kitchen where Scott is dishing up hot dogs and potato salad. Through the window, Stiles can see the maroon and silver streamers decorating the fence. People, mostly classmates and a few older people from the neighborhood are milling around, each holding a plate with some food on it.

Shit, Stiles thinks. He and Scott were supposed to have a joint graduation party today.

Stiles accepts his plate with a quiet, heartfelt, “Thank you.”

Scott shrugs and hands a plate to Derek. “I’m going to eat outside,” he announces and makes his escape.

Stiles sighs, any appetite he might have had thoroughly gone now. He’s a shitty friend. They’ve only been planning this party for a year. Of course, Stiles had to ruin it all by freeing Derek and bringing the whole _Beacon Chronicle_ staff down on them—although, he doesn’t see any reporters clapping Scott on the back and giving him one-armed hugs except for Olsen, the ancient editor-in-chief whose daughter used to babysit them when they were in elementary.

“Scott isn’t mad at you because there’s nothing to be mad about,” Dad says.

Derek pauses in poking his hot dog and says, “He’s right. Your friend isn’t mad.” He bites his hot dog and grimaces. “There are more people outside but the reporters are gone.”

Thank you, Captain Obvious, Stiles bites back, turning to his dad in time to see his grin.

“Turns out arresting one skeevy reporter for trespassing scares the whole bunch. It probably helped that I told them they were violating a minor’s privacy that any shots of the kid would result in charges being filed.”

“Go, Dad.”

“Anyway.” Dad takes Derek’s uneaten hot dog and chomps a big bite off. “So, I finally got in touch with someone who could give me some info on the Hales.” He turns to Derek, a sympathetic look in his eyes. “They did try to take you with them when they left but the encasement started hurting you. They said they could smell the pain on your body so they had to stop.”

“A little pain is nothing,” Derek says. “I can handle pain.”

“Yes, well, be as that may, the flower shop witches said that by trying to leave with you, your family was violating the rules of the curse so they were forcibly banished and barred from entering Beacon Hills until the curse was lifted.”

“The curse is lifted now,” Derek points out. “Why aren’t they here?”

Dad flushes uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah, that’s the thing: it’s not true love’s kiss that breaks the curse.” Dad gets even redder. “It’s more like true love’s fornication.”

“What?!” Stiles squeaks while Derek glowers. “Fornication? We have to fuck?!”

“Make love,” Dad corrects weakly. “You have to consummate your love by…making love to each other.”

“Dad,” Stiles moans. “Dad, Daddy, Dad the Sheriff. Derek is fifteen.”

“Technically, in the eyes of the government, he’s thirty-two,” Dad says, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. “Personally, I agree that he’s too young. But, in order to break the curse and return him to his family, you will need to do some morally unpleasant things. I’m sorry.”

“What’s your source?” Derek demands. “Is it the owners of the flower stand? How reliable is this information?”

“Do you know Dr. Alan Deaton?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says at the same time Derek says, “No.” They exchange suspicious looks.

“He’s the local vet. Scott works for him after school and on weekends.”

“Why would I know who Deaton is?” Derek asks.

Dad sighs. “He says he knew your family when they lived here. He’s actually coming over to check on you, Derek.”

“But I don’t _know_ him,” Derek insists. “Maybe he’s a friend of my mom’s but does that mean I should automatically trust him?”

Dad’s eye twitches, and Stiles knows he’s thinking of all the children he’s dealt with during his career that have been harmed by family “friends.”

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, hand on Derek’s shoulder. “We won’t leave you alone with him.” Stiles has had so many statistics drilled into his head that he too feels Deaton may be a nefarious character. After all, why wouldn’t he have mentioned that he knew the Hales when Scott worked with him?

Someone knocks on the front door and Dad points at Derek and Stiles. “Don’t move.” He goes to answer the door and comes back leading Deaton.

Stiles tries to see the vet as Derek would, a complete stranger who claims to have knowledge of his family, and decides that he doesn’t like the distinct disadvantage Derek is at not knowing who this serious-faced man is.

“Derek,” Deaton says, tone even, betraying nothing of what he thinks seeing him again for the first time in years.

Derek eyes him with suspicion, sniffing the air almost pointedly. And yeah, Stiles can agree, Deaton’s goatee is too immaculate, and the stubble on his head too thin to really be called hair but enough that his head isn’t shiny; convenient to hide any nervous sweat.

“Dr. Deaton,” Derek finally says, politely if a little stiff.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Derek, and looking so well.”

If Deaton ever spoke in anything less than his unhurried, unworried drawl, Stiles thinks he’d probably simper.

Stiles never met the Hales since they left Beacon Hills before he was in middle school, but he knows they used to be a Really Big Deal around town. And Deaton claims to have been a friend of the family. It’s no stretch of the imagination that Derek should be at least a little familiar with Deaton. But, he’s acting as if he’s never seen Deaton before.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles breaks in, aware of the glaring silence that he is interrupting, “but do you mind providing us with your credentials?”

Deaton’s impassive stare flickers briefly, a flash of something—admiration?—there and gone. He gracefully pulls his wallet from his front right pants pocket, flipping it to a clear plastic photo protector. From this, he extracts a thin, black card embossed with silver script.

Stiles takes the card, jerking back in surprise at the sudden spark of static electricity that jumps from Deaton’s fingers to his own.

The card, for all that, simply reads EMISSARY.

“What’s an emissary?” Stiles asks, and the card in his hand buzzes. Startled, Stiles drops it. It stops in midair, hovering at about waist height. A silvery projection of Deaton’s face shimmers into view, barely visible in the artificial light of the kitchen. Above Deaton’s enigmatic mug, a series of words appear.

“Dr. Alan Deaton,” Stiles reads out loud. “Emissary to the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills, California.” He looks at Deaton. “Fancy.”

“I try,” Deaton returns dryly.

Derek snatches the card out of the air, dispelling the projection. He shakes the card in Deaton’s face. “Do you really know my family?” he asks, clenching his other, clawed hand at his side.

Deaton doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

Derek cocks his head, listening. For what, Stiles couldn’t begin to guess.

“Yes,” Deaton repeats, softer, slower.

Derek’s brow creases for a few seconds before smoothing away as he nods, apparently appeased. He hands the card to Deaton, who tucks it away again.

“So, legit?” Stiles asks, looking from Derek to Deaton and back again.

“Yes. He’s telling the truth,” Derek answers. “Can you get through the barrier?”

“I can,” Deaton confirms. “I stayed here to watch over you, Derek. Your parents, your alpha, entrusted me with your care. They also entrusted your ceremony to me.”

“The consummation.” Stiles wants to swallow hard at that word. Who knows what will happen once he and Derek have completed the last stipulation of the curse. “What exactly does that entail?”

“Normally consummation would require you to be coupled intimately; however the fact that Derek is underage as he has aged much slower than even a werewolf would appear to, must be taken into account. The family that created the curse has been contacted and they are sending a representative. In the meantime, do you have anywhere I can set up some audio-visual equipment?”

Dad takes Deaton to his office just past the downstairs bathroom. Stiles takes Derek’s hand, ignoring how they’re both shaking, and leads him to the couch where they sit, thighs touching.

“Everything will be okay,” Stiles says. He lifts Derek’s hand to his lips and presses a quick kiss to his knuckles. Derek’s tremors seem to be increasing, and Stiles studies him with a worried eye. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m scared,” Derek whispers. “What exactly does consummation mean? How would we do it? Does it hurt? What if it doesn’t work? Am I stuck in Beacon Hills forever?”

“Wow, that’s a lot of questions.” Stiles laughs nervously. “Uh, let’s see. Consummation typically means having sex in addition to a relationship. Like, how a married couple has sex on their honeymoon or wedding night. That’s consummating the relationship. We’d probably do it by inserting tab a into slot b.”

Derek’s brow furrows. “Wouldn’t that hurt?”

“Sometimes?” Stiles winces. “Well, it shouldn’t really with proper preparation.”

“And what if it doesn’t work?”

“I think it will. I mean, you haven’t gone back to sleep yet. That’s probably a good sign.”

Dad pokes his head out from the office. “We’ve got a connection established.”

Derek hesitates, clinging tighter to Stiles’ hand. He really is terrified.

“Hey, hey now. It’s going to be okay. It will. Come on, it’s your family.”

“Come with me?”

“Of course, of course.” Together, they stand up. As one, they move to the office. Derek draws in a deep breath and squares his shoulders. Stiles leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, mostly to let Derek know that he is there for him, and partly because he wanted to. It’s not so much that Derek is unattractive (he’s actually decent looking for a kid) as it is the fact that he is a goddamn kid. fifteen to Stiles’ eighteen. It feels wrong to even be thinking about having to consummate their relationship later.

Deep breaths get them through the door, and Stiles falters at the sight of the laptop set up on his dad’s desk. On screen is a woman Stiles doesn’t recognize. She looks similar enough to Derek that he surmises she is related. Beside him, Derek shudders.

“Mom?” he whispers.

“No,” the woman says. “It’s Laura. Mom is—Mom’s gone.” Her eyes turn red and Derek makes a choked noise. Stiles wraps an arm around his shoulder, offering comfort.

“Gone?” Derek asks, voice small. “Dead? Mom?”

“Oh no!” Laura cries. “No! Sorry! Not dead! Just—not here. As soon as we heard you were freed from the encasement, she and Peter and Cora went in search of the witches who cast the curse.”

“But you’re an alpha,” Derek says. “If Mom is still alive…how are you the alpha?”

Laura sighs, leaning closer to her camera. Stiles thinks it must be a phone because the quality isn’t the greatest but it is enough to see how Laura’s face is drawn, the way her eyes go hard. “About ten years ago, we were attacked by the pack we’re staying in the territory of. I ended up killing their alpha and bam, instant power. We actually were hoping that since I’m not Mom’s beta anymore that I would be able to cross the barrier.”

“No such luck,” Deaton interjects. “The barrier appears to be more physical than originally thought and I have been unsuccessful at determining how to lower it.”

“So you need the witches who cursed Derek to come back and lower it for you,” Stiles says.

“Actually,” Laura says, “we think killing them might break the curse.”

“Killing? Murder? You’re planning on murdering people?”

“Witches,” Laura corrects, like that makes a damn bit of difference. Last Stiles checked, witches were still human. “They stole my brother from us—did you know that losing a pack member is like losing a limb? We couldn’t feel Derek’s bond to us anymore so it was like he was dead. seventeen years ago. seventeen years without my brother. It’s a wonder we all aren’t insane.”

“Are you sure killing them is the answer?” Derek asks. Stiles can see his dad freaking out in his corner, waving his hands and tugging at his hair while he mouth moves even though no sound escapes.

Laura’s silence answers Derek’s question. “Tell them not to kill the witches. Do it.”

“I second that,” Stiles adds. “You can’t just kill random people. Oh my God.”

“Especially not without proof,” Derek continues. “I’m still alive in here even if you can’t get to me. That should prove that they didn’t mean the curse to be permanent.”

“You want to know about permanence?” Laura’s eyes go red again, and Stiles gets the distinct impression that she’s more than a little frustrated. “When we left Beacon Hills, we took you with us, in the encasement. We could leave the city but we couldn’t get back in. and you,” her eyes fade back to human as she looks at her brother, “you were in so much pain in that prison. You had shifted even though the full moon was a couple of weeks away and you were crying. You were moved to the school by Deaton because that was the only place you weren’t in pain. But since we couldn’t cross the border again, we had to leave you behind and it nearly broke us.”

“I still don’t think you should kill the witches. I’m not in pain now and I’m not in the encasement anymore—thanks to Stiles.” Derek tugs Stiles into his side, and Stiles waves awkwardly at Laura.

“This is the true love that rescued you?” Laura sounds impressed. “He’s cute.”

“Cute?” Stiles eyes Derek. “I’m cute?” Surprisingly, Derek blushes.

“How old are you?” Laura asks. “No offense, but you look like a twelve year old.”

“Some offense taken,” Stiles says. “Especially considering I’m eighteen and your brother looks like he’s eight.”

“Do not. You said I looked fifteen earlier.”

“I lied. Get used to it.”

“Good,” Laura injects, “you’re already bickering like a married couple. The consummation should go well.”

Abruptly, Derek pulls away. “I’m tired,” he announces. “I want to take a nap.” He grabs Stiles’ hand and drags him toward the door. He pauses, briefly, glancing back at his sister to add, “Don’t kill the witches,” before he heads upstairs, still pulling Stiles along.

Stiles thought it was a ruse, a way to avoid talking about the upcoming consummation, but Derek actually leads him to his bedroom and flops face first onto the bed. Stiles grumbles about being jerked down and that he still has his shoes on.

“Fine.” Derek sits up, tugs off Stiles’ shoes one at a time and chucks them at the wall. “Happy?”

“Marginally.” Stiles smirks at him. Derek rolls his eyes and drops back to the bed. He wriggles until his bonier-than-it-looks butt is flush against Stiles’ crotch and one of Stiles’ arms is draped over his waist, their clasped hands resting on Derek’s hip.

“Um,” Stiles tries.

Derek growls at him.

Despite his fear of popping a boner and accidentally molesting Derek in his sleep, the position is comfortable enough that Stiles drifts off to sleep effortlessly.

~ * ~

He wakes up to Derek flipped around, face smushed into his chest and whimpering.

A bad dream?

Stiles nudges him awake, and Derek shoves away, rolling right off the bed.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, meaning more than the recent fall. Derek grunts, which could either be an affirmation or a pissed off sound.

“Boys,” Stiles’ dad shouts from the stairs. “Come downstairs. There’s someone here to talk to you.”

Derek growls lowly, eyes glowing yellow. “It’s a witch,” he says, scrambling to his feet.

“A witch?” Stiles repeats. “Like the witch that cursed you?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “Maybe? It’s been a while since I’ve encountered any witches.”

“Seventeen years,” Stiles murmurs. “We’d better go. My dad isn’t above yelling something embarrassing or grounding us if there’s no response.”

Derek gives him a flat, unimpressed look, and Stiles laughs at him.

“That’s perfect. Come on.”

Downstairs, Deaton, Dad, and Scott are all sitting at the kitchen table. The party in the backyard is done now, people gone again, and Stiles feels that familiar oily guilt oozing around in his gut. He will definitely have to make it up to Scott.

Also at the table is a pretty brunette woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a light jacket decorated with silver medals. As soon as Derek sees her, he recoils.

“Derek,” the woman says. She sounds sad and yet delighted at the same time even though her expression gives nothing away. Conversely, Derek looks like he might be sick, he’s so terrified, even as he calmly says, “Allison.”

Stiles guides Derek to a chair next to Scott and sits down too.

“I’m sorry for what my aunt did to you,” Allison says. “I came as soon as I heard that you had been freed.”

“How quickly can you travel?” Stiles asks. He knows hours have passed since he broke the coffin, but where exactly was Allison that she had to travel once she heard the news? And how did she hear about this?

Allison waves the question away gracefully. “It depends on the urgency.” She studies Derek for a long moment before turning back to Stiles with a sad smile. “It felt very urgent today.” She stands, pulling off her jacket. The room instantly feels colder, despite it being nearly June in California.

Allison’s arms are covered with tattoos, inscriptions in different languages. She touches a particularly large rune, and Stiles swears his ears pop. Derek whines in discomfort too.

“Sorry,” Allison apologizes, retaking her seat, the jacket folded over her lap. “It was necessary to ward the house.”

“Ward?” Scott asks. “Why?”

“What I am about to tell you will help you, but I’m sure you realize that I need to protect myself as well.”

Scott looks at everyone’s faces. Stiles doesn’t know what his is doing, but Scott nods grimly at him. “This looks like it’s going to hurt.”

“No, no,” Allison says reassuringly, patting at Scott’s hand. “It’ll make things much simpler.”

“Why don’t you start with how you knew how to come here,” Dad suggests.

“That is a good idea.” Allison sighs. “I follow a handful of sources from this town. I used to live here until my aunt destroyed our reputation.”

“How’d she do that?”

“She cursed a fifteen year old boy buying flowers for his mother’s birthday.” Allison looks pointedly at Derek. “My dad and I were unable to undo most of her curse, meaning we couldn’t release the sarcophagus or lower the barrier she created.”

Stiles sits upright in his chair. “What _did_ you change?”

“Only one part,” Allison admits. “The act of consummation. My aunt required a kind of Sleeping Beauty-slash-Little Mermaid in the spirit of Hans Christian Andersen. True love’s kiss but if the ‘prince’ did not return the affection, the ‘princess’ would die. She, Kate, wanted the princess, Derek, to have to, excuse me for the crudeness, fuck or die.”

A loud crack startles everyone, and they look at Derek.

He is white-faced, staring at the kitchen table where he has managed to break off the edge. “Sorry,” he mumbles through clenched teeth that are a little too sharp to be completely human.

Allison’s gaze softens. “Because that was the unnatural inclusion of the curse, my father and I were able to change it to true love’s kiss plus a declaration—a marriage. Sex is completely avoided but the bonding, handfasting is not.”

“Do I count as being underage or not?” Derek demands. His eyes shimmer with unshed tears, voice pressed tight. “When we were supposed to consummate by having sex, it seemed to matter more than it does now. Do I get a choice at all?”

“I’m sorry no,” Allison says. “The curse was supposed to take your free will, and it has. You have to marry Stiles by sundown tonight or you’ll be returned to the sarcophagus for at least another seventeen years.”

“If I’m underage,” Derek says, resolved, though he still appears to be close to tears, “then you need my parents’ permission. I doubt they will give it to you unless you can get them through the barrier.”

“Oh, that’s the easy part. My dad is standing by to travel everyone in. the barrier keeps physical beings out. Incorporeal is another matter.”

So many questions bubble up in Stiles’ mind but before he can even open his mouth, Derek says, “We’ll need a fire.”

“A fire?” Scott asks. “Like, a bonfire?”

“No. Just a small one that Stiles and I can jump over.”

“Fire?” Stiles swallows hard at that thought. Jumping over fire with his coordination? Why not just set him ablaze now and save everyone the trouble? Then, he imagines Derek in his high tops and his band t-shirt and snorts. “That should be fun.”

Derek grins at him like he knows what Stiles is thinking. “Oh, it will be,” he promises. “We have to do it naked.”

“Naked?!” Stiles squawks. “Oh hell no. Absolutely not. We are not jumping over a fire naked.”

“Three times,” Derek adds, holding up three fingers tipped with claws. “The no clothes thing is so that nothing hanging loose catches fire. We jump three times. Well each of us only jumps twice. Once by ourselves and then again together, holding hands. It’s a beautiful occurrence. Usually.”

Stiles chooses to ignore that last statement because he’s not really expected to jump over fire, is he? Derek looks absolutely serious. Oh hell fucking no.

“Why can’t we be married by a, I don’t know, a justice of the peace or something?”

“You know, that’s not actually a bad idea,” Allison says. “I’ll tell my dad to bring the Hales here and you can find a judge willing to file the papers.

“It’s Sunday,” Scott breaks in suddenly.

“What?”

“Today. It’s Sunday. Commencement. Unless you know a judge willing to give up their Sunday afternoon, you’re going to have to do the fire ceremony.”

“Thanks for that wonderful insight, Scotty.”

Scott beams. “You’re welcome!” Then he adds, “You should still do the handfasting-fire jumping thing too. I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t have to do it naked. Just make sure the clothes you wear aren’t too loose.”

Dad snaps his fingers. “I still have Stiles’ prom suit. I’m sure it can fit Derek. And Stiles, you can where the suit you were supposed to wear today. Don’t think I didn’t notice your jeans under your gown. Also, I might have an idea about the judge. You remember Sheriff Calhoun?” At everyone’s nods, he continues, “His wife, Violet, is a judge. I bet she’d both be okay with performing an emergency wedding. Under the circumstances, anyway.”

He wanders off, digging out his cell phone.

Derek starts whining, and Stiles glances around for whatever is scaring him only to see just Allison blinking slowly, a finger pressed to her temple. A sudden flash of light travels from her finger into her skin. Then, she settles back in her seat.

“My dad is coming,” she says. “We’ll just be waiting on the judge and for the ceremonial fire to be built.”

“We can use the backyard,” Scott says, pointing at the now-empty space. Stiles tamps down on the sensation of guilt clawing his chest at having abandoned Scott to be the host of their joint party. Stiles doesn’t regret the fact that he hadn’t interacted with any of his classmates again. He never really got along with them anyway.

Dad comes back, phone held out to Stiles. “You convince her,” he says, stomping off as soon as Stiles takes the device.

“Hello?”

“Stiles,” Violet Calhoun says breathily. “Will you tell me why your father is demanding I perform some sort of magical bullshit request and pull a marriage license out of my ass for you?”

Stiles sighs. “Did you hear about the thing at graduation?” he asks. As a former mayor, he doesn’t know if she attended commencement. He hadn’t exactly been scanning the crowd for familiar faces.

“Oh, yes, the miraculous freeing of Derek Hale from his encasement. How’s that going for you?”

“Uh, well, that’s the thing,” Stiles hedges. “Unless we want Derek back in his coffin, he has to get married. To me. Today. Before sundown.”

“Stiles, you’re barely eighteen. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I should tell you, Derek didn’t age. He’s still fifteen, so if you think that it’s bad that I lost my free will, just imagine how horrifying it is for him.”

“Jesus,” Judge Calhoun breathes. “Let me call some people and get something to you right away. Just give me a couple hours. Stiles, I promise we’ll be there.”

“Cool, thanks.” Stiles hands the phone back to his dad and then turns to Derek, who won’t meet his eyes. “Hey, it’ll be okay.”

“No it won’t,” Derek bites out. “It’s not fair. Not to you and not to me. I wish I’d never tried buying flowers. I should have just made something like the stupid box Laura did. Mom never cared about presents but that year, I just wanted to do something special for her and it ruined everyone’s lives.” He blinks away a tear, but Stiles can still see them shimmering in his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, softly, “it’s not your fault this happened. It’s Allison’s aunt’s fault.”

“Kate,” Derek says. “Her name is Kate.”

“Was,” Allison corrects. “Kate was killed when she pissed off another pack of werewolves who ripped her to shreds for daring to try to curse them. I just wish we’d let your parents do the same but we thought it would hurt you more in the long run. That’s the start of when they decided to leave.”

“Shouldn’t her death have broken the curse?” Stiles asks. That’s how it goes in fairytales. At least the _Disney_ ified ones.

“Not if her magic was bound,” Deaton says, his first words in a long time. “Did Kate do any rituals to preserve her magic in case of her demise?”

“She had a collection of jars that she horded. My dad locked them away when she died.”

“It’s possible her curse for Derek is in those jars,” Deaton says. “Can you have your father retrieve them for us?”

“We wouldn’t have to get married?” Stiles asks. Surprisingly, that thought hurts. He’s become quite comfortable holding Derek’s hand and comforting the boy. And isn’t that a nice dousing of cold water? Derek is just a boy. And if Stiles follows through on the marriage, then he’s no better than Kate Argent. Shit. He really is no better than that bitch if he takes any pleasure from Derek’s predicament.

 Derek eyes him oddly.

“We should still keep the plan for the wedding as a backup,” Stiles hears Deaton say, unsure of why his ears are suddenly ringing and it feels difficult to draw in a breath. A sudden heat covers his hand, and he looks down to see that Derek has taken his hand and is squeezing it in a rhythm not unlike breathing.

Stiles gratefully follows the pattern and sucks in a lungful of air. Derek smiles, soft, private, and then ducks his head to hide the pleased blush coloring his cheeks.

“Wait?” Stiles interrupts. “Seriously? Even if the, excuse me, fuck-or-die is gone, you’d still want to?”

Derek blushes harder. “I told you,” he mumbles. “I feel safe with you.” He looks up, blanching just as suddenly as he flushed. “Do you not want to? Is that why you started panicking?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I want it too much, like maybe the free will is still being affected. And I’m afraid of being like Kate, taking away your ability to say no. But, hell. If you still want to and there’s no objections, I’d really like to.”

“No sex,” Dad interjects, and Stiles groans, dropping his head down to smack against the table.

“Dad. Seriously? Of course no sex.”

“Not for a few years of course.”

“Of course.”

“Derek?” Dad says, and Derek freezes.

“Yes, sir?”

“No sex.”

Derek goes red and splutters over nothing. “No sex,” he finally repeats weakly, still flushed.

“Good. Then you have my blessing…as long as one of you proposes to the other. This thing with the witch and the true love is really grating on me. Just. Just wait.” He disappears upstairs for ten long minutes during which Allison does her little flash trick again and Deaton and Scott begin discussing the finer points of brushing wet dogs.

Eventually, Dad comes back and thrusts a box at Stiles. It’s one of those Tiffany blue boxes his mom used to buy off crafters at flea markets that she used to store her jewelry in.

He opens it, gaping down at a string of beads woven into an intricate ring.

He remembers this ring. His mom made it for him, for that “special someone.” Well, Derek definitely qualifies.

Stiles spills out of his chair to kneel next to Derek, thrusting the ring at him and taking as calming of a breath as he can.

“Derek Hale,” he says, “though I have only known you for a few short hours, it feels like a lifetime. It feels as if I haven’t ever not known you nor known what it’s like to be with you—non-Biblically—I,” he pauses, trembling. Derek has both hands pressed over his mouth, staring wide-eyed at the ring. “I love you, Derek Hale. Would you make me the happiest Stilinski in this room by agreeing to marry me?”

“Only if you make me the happiest Hale by agreeing to marry me,” Derek counters. He grins crookedly and throws himself at Stiles.

The kiss is a proper one with teeth and crashing noses and Derek pokes his eye with his flailing finger, trying to get the ring on without relinquishing his lip-lock.

Stiles falls back laughing, finally dislodging Derek long enough to slip the ring on before Derek attacks his mouth again.

Dad hauls them apart, keeping a firm hand on the back of Derek’s neck while Stiles dusts himself off and pokes at his swollen lips.

“No sex,” Dad reminds them, shaking Derek a little.

“Kissing isn’t sex.” Derek pouts. It’s freaking adorable. But it also has the desired effect, and Stiles calmly retakes his seat, tugging Derek down too when his dad lets him go.

“We should probably start setting up for the ceremony,” Scott says. “I mean, if you’re jumping over an open flame to commemorate—”

“Consummate,” Stiles corrects.

“—your marriage, then we really ought to have a fire you can safely jump over. Besides, it’s not like Judge Calhoun is going to be here in an hour. We might as well put our time to good use.”

Stiles reaches across the table and thumps Scott’s shoulder. “You’re such a good friend,” he says. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Scott shrugs. “It’ll be okay.” Then, he grins, thumping Stiles back harder. “So, marriage. It’s a good look on you.” He slides off his chair and heads outside.

Stiles would chase him, but he knows he’s right. He hasn’t felt this settled since before senior year. Something about Derek calms the torrent of energy always surging through his veins, and from the dopey look on Derek’s face, Stiles would guess that he feels the same calm. It makes their impending marriage feel even more right despite the circumstances under which they have been thrown together.

Allison looks around the emptying room and sighs. “I’m going to help my dad ferry the Hales across the border. It’s a bit taxing with just one witch.” She snaps her fingers and disappears with a small crack not unlike a thunderclap. Derek winces when she does it, working his jaw like he’s popping his ears. Deaton doesn’t even make an excuse, just stands up and marches outside to where Scott is using a shovel to chop a circle into the middle of the backyard.

“Is it wrong if I just want to take another nap?” Derek asks. Stiles can’t help the fond smile that tugs on his lips.

“I think Scott has the right idea and we should really get ready for the wedding. How do you feel about vows? I’m sure we’ll be asked for some if my dad has his way and makes this as much like a traditional wedding as he can.

“You write your vows,” Derek says. “I’m going to sleep.”

“What about your vows?”

Derek waves a hand at him as he goes upstairs, probably going to stick his head under Stiles’ pillow again. “I’ll just say what I feel when it comes to that time. Besides, what even are vows?”

“Promises that we make to each other. You know, in sickness and in health. ‘Til death do us part.” Stiles curls his fingers into air quotes. Derek shakes his head and continues walking.

Stiles sighs, running his hands over his head and scratching his scalp in a way that is almost satisfactory. Still. Vows.

He grabs a pad of paper and a pen and sits, staring out at Scott and Deaton working steadily. He frowns down at the blank page, tapping it with the pen.

This is not working. He has nothing. He knows _what_ he feels around Derek but he doesn’t know _how_ to write it down.

Maybe Derek has the right idea. Just say it when the time comes. And in the meantime, take a nap.

Yep.

Stiles tosses the pen onto the pad and takes the stairs two at a time until he bursts into his room. Derek doesn’t move except to pat the spot behind him.

“So, you really like being the little spoon, huh?”

Derek sticks his tongue out and as soon as Stiles lies down, he rolls around to face him. “I think I love you,” he whispers. And then promptly goes to sleep.

It takes Stiles another ten minutes to talk himself out of a panic attack (that never really felt threatening) and deciding that, yeah, he thinks he’s in love too. And it takes another five minutes to slow his breathing to sync with Derek’s and drift off as well.

~ * ~

By the time they come downstairs after a two hour nap, dressed in the suits, the house is filled with people. Stiles only recognizes Laura (aside from Scott, his dad, Deaton, and Allison, of course). Derek stares wide-eyed at all the new people, all of whom stare just as intently back.

The first one to move, a woman nearly Laura’s age, steps forward and wraps Derek into a tight embrace. She squeezes him so hard Stiles thinks he hears his ribs creaking.

Derek sticks his nose into her neck and inhales deeply. “Cora,” he says, happily. Then, he pulls back, frowning. “We’re not twins anymore.”

And oh, that kind of makes Stiles’ heart hurt in sympathy.

“I know. Now I’m the older twin.” She ruffles Derek’s hair and then turns to Stiles, eyes blazing up into blue.

“Red means alpha,” Stiles whispers to Derek. “What does blue and yellow mean?”

“Yellow is beta. Blue is beta too except you’ve killed someone. It doesn’t matter if it was in self defense or not, the eyes change color.”

“Why?”

“Because,” a man with a graying beard and piercing blue eyes says, “the hunters, from which the witches evolved, genetically modified captured weres so that they could track these ‘killers.’” He shakes his head sadly. “So many werewolves have died because of this forced evolution.” He sticks out his hand and Stiles tentatively shakes it. “I’m Chris Argent, head of this coven.”

“I thought heads of covens were usually female,” is all Stiles can think to say.

Chris laughs. “My wife, before her passing, was the head of the coven. In event of death, leadership passes to mates. But, no, not only women can be heads of covens. It is preferred because women tend to have more level heads on their shoulders and an innate ability to decipher information. My wife trained me well.”

Allison suddenly appears by Chris’ elbow and says, “Dad, you need to go get Kate’s jars. Take Deaton. He’s a druid, he’ll know what he’s looking for.”

“Take me too,” Laura says. “I know Derek’s scent. If there’s a jar that is linked to him, I’ll find it.”

“Go,” Allison says. “Hurry! The judge will be here soon.”

Chris grabs Laura’s and Deaton’s arms and all three of them disappear with the same cracking sound Allison had earlier.

A few minutes later—long enough for a woman nearer to 70 than 60 to place a crown woven from strands of honey grass and small white flowers onto both Stiles’ and Derek’s heads—they pop back in with another crack. Laura’s face is distorted, her brow overly pronounced with missing eyebrows and long sideburns. She looks like Derek did during the full moon. Her teeth look particularly sharp and her eyes glow red. Chris keeps his hand locked around her wrist, avoiding the wicked looking claws sprouting from her fingertips, and drags her to the older woman.

“Talia,” he says, inclining his head in respect. The woman takes over holding Laura’s wrist, her own eyes glowing a deeper red than Laura’s.

Deaton stands still, gazing down in wonder at a novelty bottle of iridescently colored lubricant. The bottle itself is in the shape of a horn of some kind. Unicorn, Stiles thinks, maybe a little hysterically.

He feels his face heat with shame and embarrassment. Lube. For, presumably, Derek’s ass. Kate Argent was one twisted bitch and Stiles is secretly glad that she’s already dead. He only wishes that one of Derek’s relatives had had the pleasure of ripping her throat out. With their teeth if necessary.

Derek’s hand finds his and squeezes and Stiles gives his almost-husband a grateful smile.

“Any ideas on breaking the curse?” Stiles asks Deaton.

“One,” Deaton replies. “Hold out your hands.” Stiles offers him the hand Derek is holding. Deaton uncaps the bottle, pouring a generous amount of the cool liquid onto their hands. “Allison, Chris?”

The witches each grasp one of their free hands, Chris holding Stiles’ and Allison grabbing Derek’s. A gentle warmth spreads across both of Stiles’ joined hands. Derek’s fingers flex on Stiles’ hand, and he feels the scrape of claws against his palm.

Stiles turns his head to see that Derek’s eyes are yellow; his sideburns extended as Laura’s were, his mouth open enough to reveal his elongated canines.

Werewolves must have a sensitivity to magic.

Stiles tightens his grip despite the claws still there.

Slowly, surely, he notices the hair receding, the pronounced brow smoothing away, and the teeth and claws shrinking. The last to go are the eyes, directed at him, watching him.

Stiles thinks he should have felt threatened by Derek’s shift, but the control he exhibited speaks volumes. Stiles knows then with absolutely certainty that Derek will never hurt him—not on purpose and not accidentally either.

With over bounding joy at his discovery, Stiles announces, “Let’s get this party started,” and drags Derek outside with him.

Where they run into Judge Calhoun staring in awe at the spread of chairs and the fire pit. Stiles knows what she thinks she’s seeing: a ritual. But, in a way, isn’t a wedding a ritual itself?

“I thought this was just a wedding,” Judge Calhoun says faintly.

“It is,” a man answers, turning to Stiles and introducing himself as Derek’s father. He picks up a brush dipped in henna ink. He uses the brush to paint three spirals connected at their core on the inside of Stiles’ left wrist. Then, he passes the brush to Stiles’ dad and he paints the same symbol onto the inside of Derek’s right wrist.

“It’s a triskelion,” Derek explains. “It’s our family’s sigil.”

Dad takes Stiles’ right wrist and draws the pattern from Mom’s ring onto his skin. Derek’s father repeats it on Derek’s left wrist.

Then, Allison removes the ring from Derek’s finger, weighing it in her palm for a moment before tapping it and creating an identical one. She hands one of the rings to Scott—because of course Scott is Stiles’ best man—and one to Cora, Derek’s twin.

Scott and Cora take their place at the front of the chairs, one on each side, and Derek stands by Cora while Stiles steps up beside Scott.

Stiles is struck then with the thought that this is real. It’s happening. It’s really happening.

He grabs Derek’s hand to press a kiss to his knuckles, calm only because it occurs to him that now he and Derek have forever together. For better or worse.

Judge Calhoun gives them a shortened spiel, the vows are simply exchanged “I love you”s and shared declarations of intent. Dad surreptitiously wipes his eyes while Derek’s father outright blows his nose loudly.

Then, after they slide their rings on and kiss as husband and husband, Dad murmuring a “No sex” when the kiss gets just a little un-chaste, they move to the fire. Derek jumps first, glancing back to make sure Stiles is coming too. Stiles draws in a deep breath. This is okay, good even. The emptied bottle sitting innocently on a chair might as well be as much a symbol of their love as the family signs inked onto their wrists. Stiles grins, whooping as he leaps, landing neatly next to Derek.

Derek quickly grabs his hand, tugging it up to his mouth to press a kiss to his knuckles. “Ready?” he asks.

Stiles nods.

They leap together.

~ Fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> Posted at my [Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/165918800470/the-one-who-helps-you-from-your-knees).  
> I started this story at least a year ago and it's thanks to the Sterek Writers Room that it's finally done.


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